Moriarty's Plan (REPOST)
by Sherlock Holmes of 221B
Summary: <html><head></head>After his meeting at the pool with Sherlock, Moriarty is set on teaching his adversary who he's playing with. His plan is ever changing, and sinister. (T FOR USE OF DRUGS)</html>
1. Prologue

Moriarty's Plan

Prologue

Moriarty Enjoys the Game

Jim was sitting at his table in his lovely home. He smiled to himself, lost in thought. He mulled over the day's events in his mind. He'd revealed to his favorite detective who he was. The look of surprise on his face when he thought that it had been the doctor who was playing games with him had been priceless. Then, when Jim came out to Sherlock, his expression had been wonderful too. Oh? Jim from IT? Gay Jim? Jim is Moriarty? He smirked at the thought. For someone who was made out to be one of the smartest people in London, if not the smartest, Sherlock sure had been slow on the uptake.

Tapping his fingers on the table, he pondered his next move. The detective would be safe at the moment, if Jim did what would be normal, logical. Those paranoid police of his though, they'd probably be keeping an eye on Sherlock and the doctor, worried that the game was not over. Jim smiled to himself. They'd be right, of course. The game wasn't over, and Jim intended to start the next round soon. He tapped a tune on the table, Partita no. 3, as he finally decided. The surprise that the detective would feel if Jim turned up in the dead of night would be absolutely perfect, and reminder of the detective's inability to predict his movements, to take him down. He loved the idea that he could best the detective. If Sherlock was to be a hero in this story, he would need a villain, and Jim would endeavor to be the best villain Sherlock would ever find.

Jim pulled out his phone. How should he do this? For a moment, he considered warning Sherlock, but then considered that that would take away from the enjoyment he would get from Sherlock's surprise when he arrived. The nosy detective and the good doctor would be in the dark about his plans, as was proper. He thought about it more. Hmm... Perhaps he would just give the pair a little taster. Something to amuse him. He scrolled through his many contacts and came upon his favorite one: His sniper, Sebastian Moran, labeled as "Seb" in his phone. He clicked it, and typed up a text.

"Seb, shoot a bullet into a window of 221B Baker Street. -JM x" He read over the text. It was not a question or a request; it was an order, as he was used to giving. He clicked to send the text, and held the device in his hand, fiddling with it. He knew how the sniper worked; he would get a text once it was done. The reply came twenty minutes later, as Jim expected.

"It is done. -SM" was the short message. Jim was jubilant. He played with his phone again for a moment, thinking once more. He really wanted to see Sherlock and Watson fretting about, to see how they would react to the shot through their window. He wanted to see them scrambling about, looking for the answer to the shot, and then finally realize that it was a warning from the consulting criminal himself. Ought he go in person? He could use CCTV to watch; it was safer, after all. But no... CCTV had no sound. Tapping his fingers one last time, he came to a final decision.

"Keep an eye on 221B, Seb. If anything goes wrong, it will be necessary for you to intervene. -JM x" he texted, and then slipped his phone into a pocket of his suit. He stood, and went over to the coat rack, lifting his coat off of it and slipping it on. Once that was gone, he headed out. Sherlock would never expect that Jim would come. He would revel in the surprise that would float through the flat, and the expression on the faces of the two tenants. And he knew that Sherlock would not be able to hide an expression of surprise; no matter how hard the detective tried to hide it, he could not hide from Jim the fact that he did have emotions. That fact was one that Jim new quite well, and was going to exploit. It would all be part of his journey to burn Sherlock, to destroy him. Once that was done, he would finish the game, once and for all.


	2. Chapter 1

Moriarty's Plan

Chapter 1

Moriarty Likes Surprising People

**_*I do not own Sherlock. Do not steal. If you like, feel free to follow, favorite, or leave a review. Thank you.*_**

As Jim walked down the street towards Sherlock's flat, his footfalls were the only notable sound. Besides the occasional passing of a car, the clapping of Jim's shoes against the sidewalk were, in fact, the _only_ sounds. Clap, clap, clap, they went, as he walked along. With the exclusion of himself, the street was completely empty, save a few cars and the occasional passerby.

His gaze was definitely one of someone who was lost in thought. He was staring off into space, focused entirely on the face he imagined Sherlock would have when Jim arrived. It would be adorable. And that of his flatmate... Oh, that would be even better, but he cared nothing for the pet. The doctor was nothing more than a way to get to Sherlock. Though... Dr. Watson was intriguing. Anyone who could stand to be around Sherlock deserved his interest. Perhaps he'd look into it later. He was terribly curious, now, but he must focus on the present...

He almost walked past 221B when he reached it, because he wasn't paying attention. He just laughed it off lightly, and went up to the door. He tried the door silently. Of course it was locked, what should he expect? Not that it mattered to him, though. He pulled a bobby pin out of his pocket, and picked the lock with ease. It was hardly half a minute before the door was unlocked. He opened it and closed it silently as he went in, walking carefully up the stairs. He grinned to himself, remembering those faces that his imagination had come up with, the shocked faces of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

He reached the top of the stairs. He stared at the door for a moment, listening to the interactions of the two inside. The voices were certainly irate and suggestive that they were currently or had been arguing. That meant that they had been affected by the shot, then. Smirking, he reached out, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John bad both been asleep when they heard the gunshot and their window shatter. The response was immediate, and frantic, but then, things became less about immediate danger and more about why the shot had been fired. Now, it was about the particulars of how that bullet came to be shot through their window if not to be a killshot. Obviously, Sherlock and John were intended to be affected, but if not killed or injured, then what?<p>

The former was more unnerved about it than the latter. John insisted that it was an accident, while Sherlock knew otherwise. He had quickly deduced that it was a warning, most likely from Moriarty, but John wouldn't hear it. It surprised Sherlock that John would be so ignorant about the shot, when the doctor had, just earlier that night, had been held at gunpoint with the threat that if he didn't toe the line, he'd blow up and take Sherlock with him. It made absolutely no sense, and enraged Sherlock, most particularly when John went as far as to tell Sherlock to shut up and go back to sleep. It had led to an argument between them. Sherlock wouldn't have argued, but he needed John to accept what the shot was.

Their argument had quickly died down in intensity, though they had still shot sharp words at each other every so often. Aside from that, it was mostly just bitter silence.

Sherlock had been in the middle of a sentence, which was obviously going to reignite the argument, when the door opened. He glanced at it, at first unperturbed, but then he did a double take and froze. He glanced at John, whose eyes had widened and mouth was hanging open. Sherlock kept his expression calm, but he could feel the tension in his face and body, and the wideness of his eyes. In their doorway stood the man who had threatened John earlier.

When Sherlock and John said nothing, Moriarty decided to speak. As he did so, he glanced at the window, amused by the bullet hole in it.

"Did you like my little greeting? I have to assume not. You've been fretting about, arguing, and I know it's not just because you have to pay for the repairs." he said, the ghost of a smirk on his face as he turned to look at Sherlock. He spared John a glance, too, but quickly shifted his focus back onto his favourite person in the room. "I decided I had to come see _you, _Sherlock, in person. I don't regret it either. You should've seen your face when I walked in. Priceless." he said. "I would've taken a picture, but I decided not to. A mental photo can be just as good as a physical one when stored properly in a mind palace. And you know quite a bit about mind palaces, don't you, Sherlock?"

"What do you want, Moriarty? Get to the point!" John growled. Sherlock held up a hand to him and gave him a look that told him not to say anything. While it infuriated John, he knew better than to say more. His friend was just keeping his best interests in mind, regardless of how stupid the means to them appeared to be.

"You'll want to be quiet, doctor. You're just the pet. I have no reservations about getting rid of you if you act out of turn. Just to make myself clear, you'll want to toe the line if you have any intentions of continuing to breathe. Now, let the only two competent people in the room have a nice little chat. You could go make tea or something." Jim said dully. He wasn't completely honest in that, of course. As he had recognized right before he arrived at the pair's flat, the fact that Sherlock actually had a friend was much too interesting to not give any focus to. He wanted to get to know the pet, the one who could tolerate the obnoxious detective.

"John, that might be best." Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off of the criminal. John, flustered, stood and headed to the kitchen. He was very loud about making the tea, furious about having to do so, but neither Sherlock nor his enemy were perturbed. "Why have you come, Jim?"

"You know my powers, Sherlock." Jim said, his voice serious, indicating that he was going to get right to the point. "Now, I was hoping that my little warning back at the pool would be enough to persuade you to back off, but I can see plain as day that that's not going to happen." He paused, and then stalked over to the seat John had vacated, before speaking again. "I'm not going to continue playing games with you, Sherlock. Not for much longer. I'm not asking you to join me, Sherlock. I'm asking you to back off. It would truly be in your best interests to do so. Don't make me order you. Don't make me _make _you. You will not like the results."

Sherlock took a moment to reply, which was only to be expected, because Jim was being serious, and that was not to be taken lightly. This was the first time he was being serious, and it was, to be completely honest, borderline terrifying. Not that Sherlock would let him know that. "You have to know my answer to this, Jim. If you commit a crime, and I'm put on it, I am not only happy to solve it - I am obligated to. I'm in too deep to fall back now, and even if I wasn't, I would _not _stop. If you know me, as I expect you have for a _long_, _long _time, then you know that it is not in my nature to back down."

"Oh, I know it's not in your nature." Jim said with a sigh. "But it's not in my nature to allow such a hindrance to continue. If you were anyone else, you would already be lying spread-eagled on the floor with a bullet in your brain. I don't want to kill you, Sherlock. It would be such a waste. Please consider what I've said to you. I don't want to kill you, I say again."

"I'm sorry. My decision is final, and you would do well to accept that and move on."

"There will be no moving on, if this is your final decision, as you say. There will only be me planning your fall, Sherlock. There's still a chance for you. You're one in a million. Don't make it so I have to kill you. Really. Consider what I've said." With that, Jim stood, and walked gracefully over to the door. "My apologies. I'll be skipping the tea, thanks."

He opened the door just enough to slip out, and then closed it behind him, the rhythmic sound of his feet hitting the stairs as he left fading into nothing. Just a minute after Jim's departure, John returned to the room with tea.

"What, he can suggest I make tea and then not bother to stay for some? Not that I want him here, but it's a mite wasteful." John said ruefully, setting the tea down. Sherlock picked up a cup, and blew on it, still thinking about what Jim had said.


	3. Chapter 2

Moriarty's Plan

Chapter 2

Moriarty Decides

**_*I do not own Sherlock. Do not steal. If you like, feel free to follow, favorite, or leave a review. Thank you.*_**

It was around four in the morning when 221B's residents went to sleep, at last. They slept until around noon and were both still somewhat tired when they awoke. It was only at that time that John was able to register his amazement at the fact that Sherlock had actually gone to sleep that night. It was a rarity, and surely brought about by last night's events. He sort of wondered what Moriarty had said to him to elicit such a reaction. All else aside, he and Sherlock started to settle back down. Around an hour after they both woke up, they had someone come to replace the window, which had drawn their eyes whenever they looked anywhere near it. Everything was pretty much back to normal.

All morning, Sherlock was in a sour mood. Anyone else would have been bothered by it, but since John was his flatmate, he was used to it, and had his methods of dealing with his friend's attitude. He particularly understood why Sherlock would be irate. John guessed (quite accurately) that Moriarty had threatened him and his life, and that sort of thing would bother anyone. Hell, if Moriarty had threatened _him _like that, he would have probably gone into his room, gotten his gun, and shot him. Okay, that would be a bit dramatic (and it wouldn't end well for him), but he was sure that he would not do nothing, as Sherlock was appearing to do.

Nothing more had been heard from Moriarty, that morning. It was as though nothing had even happened. John and Sherlock shared the same concern: What was Moriarty up to? What was his plan? There had to be one; Moriarty didn't do things without a reason. A bullet in their window, just for fun? A warning? There as no way that Moriarty wasn't going to build upon that. It had to be part of his plan. Moriarty's plan...

Sherlock, of course, would never let on that he was affected greatly by Moriarty's actions. Naturally, he knew he was in danger. It was true; had he been anyone else, he would have already been dead. It would be a sign of disrespect to think that Moriarty wouldn't give a kill order to his snipers on him, or else have him killed, but... There had to be something, _something _to indicate why he hadn't done it already. It couldn't just be that he treasured Sherlock as an intellectual equal. All pests would need dealing with, at some point. No, there had to be something else... But what? All day, he pondered these thoughts, as though thinking about it might magically reveal what was in the criminal's mind. _Burn... _Moriarty wanted to burn him. He had said it at the pool. But what would that mean? These thoughts whizzed back and forth in his mind, even as he went to bed that night.

* * *

><p>Jim, who was taking up so much space in the minds of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, was back to hiding in his personal crevice. It was almost like a lair, an underground sanctuary where he made a lot of plans and important decisions. On his mind right then was Sherlock Holmes. Like he had done the following night, the criminal was thinking about his encounters with him. It was truly adorable, the detective's refusal to step down. He was such fun. It made Jim want to bring him to his home and keep him there, out of the way, and a bit of entertainment when he needed some. He sighed, and decided against it. No. Acting prematurely, in such a ridiculous manner too, would ruin all of his plans for the man who he considered his equal.<p>

Around half an hour after he had woken up, Jim made his decision for his next course of action. It was evident from their meeting two nights ago that Sherlock, despite all his gusto and his stubborn nature, _was _afraid of him. It was obvious, though, that in spite of that, the detective would continue to get in his way. Jim had made his threats, and for what? He needed to follow through on them. Deciding to carry out the first step of his plan, he pulled out his phone, and sent a text to a random contact in his phone.

-Whatever you're doing, you're done with it for now. Go to Baker Street, and put a bomb at 221b. Sherlock Holmes lives there. Don't let him see you or he'll know what you're up to. -JM-

After he sent the text, he sat back in his chair, wearing a thoughtful look on his face. That had been one of his newer recruits, he knew, and this task would serve as a good test of loyalty. If he managed it, Jim would be able to take him into more confidence. If he didn't... well, he was good at making bodies disappear.

...

It was a half hour later that Jim got a text back from the man he set the tedious task to.

-It's done. What should I do next...?-

Jim read it over several times, thinking. He would tell him what to do, but there was something he wanted to know first. He texted the man with his question.

-Did Sherlock Holmes see you? Was he suspicious? -JM-

The reply came very quickly. This employee was afraid of him, then. Delightful.

-No, sir. Holmes was scrolling through something on his phone. Completely unaware of his surroundings.-

Hearing that pleased Jim. That meant that his adversary would not know about the bomb, foresee the explosion, or even hear the bomb ticking down the time until detonation. Brilliant. He waited a few moments before sending his next message.

-Excellent. Here's what you do next, then: Set the bomb to detonate in five minutes' time. Again: Don't let him see you. -JM-

He slipped his phone into his pocket, then, and opened his laptop and started running a program that would allow him to hack into the CCTV and watch the explosion and chaos. It was something he loved to see, loved to _cause_, so he wouldn't want to miss it. He would've just gone in person, but if Sherlock somehow managed to stay conscious, and he saw Jim, the pieces would click and Sherlock would know just what happened.

* * *

><p>Sitting across from Sherlock, in a chair, was John. Sherlock, on his occasional glances up, could see that his friend wanted to converse with him. He refused to acknowledge that fact, however. His sour mood had lingered from his enemy's visit two nights ago, and he had no desire to speak with anyone, including John. He paused his reading on his phone for a moment. He noticed, then, just how thirsty he was, just how hungry he was.<p>

With a sigh, he stood, and headed to the kitchen. On his way, he slipped his phone into his pocket. Once he was in the kitchen, he pulled out a kettle and filled it with water, intending to make tea. It had been innocent enough, and he was definitely not prepared for what happened next, nor was John.

Sherlock's world exploded in fire and debris. Had he not been knocked unconscious by flying debris, he would've connected that a bomb had exploded. However, that was not the case, so he simply collapsed to the floor with a bleeding gash on the back of his head. John, too, had been knocked unconscious by the debris, though he was simply hit on the head by it, not hit and cut like Sherlock had been.

It took a few minutes, but paramedics and firefighters arrived at Baker Street. The fires were put out, and the paramedics ran inside to see if anyone had been home. When they saw who was there, they nearly panicked. All of them recognized Sherlock Holmes and his friend John Watson. If these two died, there would've been no telling what could happen. The possibility was all too real, too: They both had potentially fatal injuries.

Upon inquiry that took only a few minutes, they found that the other inhabitants had been incredibly lucky. No one, not even the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had been there at the time of the bombing, save Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. That led them to believe that the attack was specifically targeted at the duo. It was nothing less than what they expected, of course. Lestrade had warned them that a blow would probably fall upon them at some point.

* * *

><p>After he had had his laugh about the happenings at Baker Street, he decided to head out to see his favourite detective, but only after visiting the wreckage at Baker Street. On the news, he had seen but a glimpse, <em>only <em>a glimpse, an unsatisfying glimpse of the man that he had intentionally wounded, almost mortally. It had been lovely, of course, seeing all that torn skin, and blood. The glimpse he'd gotten had made Sherlock look entirely helpless. It was excellent. And yet, it wasn't enough. He needed to _see _him.

Jim was there for a few minutes before he decided to head on out to Sherlock. He was in a hospital, now, but that wouldn't be a problem. He had his connections, after all, and breaking into a hospital would be easy. He could steal their most precious things, if he wanted. He _didn't _want to, but that didn't matter. Lestrade wouldn't know who he was; Sherlock had not bothered to take a picture of him when they met. It was a foolish move on his part, but he wouldn't change it if he could.

He rode in a cab to the hospital he knew Sherlock would be in, and smirked just a little bit to himself. Oh, if the driver knew just who was riding in his car... Wouldn't that be a spectacle? He chuckled quietly to himself at the thought. But then, nobody would know who he was. Even Sherlock hadn't known when Jim had purposefully revealed himself to him the first time. He'd lapped up everything he had placed and picked up on nothing of what he had been hiding.

When the cab arrived at the hospital, Jim gave the driver notably more to pay for the ride than was due. He glimpsed the driver gaping at him, but got out with a sort of carelessness and swagger. Calmly, he walked to the hospital doors, and went inside.


	4. Chapter 3

Moriarty's Plan

Chapter 3

Moriarty Pays Sherlock A Visit

_***I do not own Sherlock. Sherlock is property of the BBC. Do not steal. Feel free to follow, favorite, and review. Thanks for all of the above.***_

When Jim walked through the front door of the hospital, he immediately went up to the woman at the front desk, and feigned a look of distress.

"Um... Hello? I'm Alex Flemming... I was told my friend had been injured and that he was here? Sherlock Holmes? Is he alright?" he asked, pretending to be panicked. It appeared to have worked: The woman gave him a look of sympathy and pity, the latter of which angered him a bit, but did not elicit a response.

"He was brought in a little while ago, dear. I don't know how he is, but he's not dead, so perhaps that's a good sign. They'll let you in in a little while, alright? You said your name was Alex Flemming?"

"Yes." he said, and sniffled for effect.

"Alright. Go ahead and sit down over there and read a newspaper or something. I'll call you up when you can see him."

He nodded and scuttled over to a chair, before sinking into it. He pulled out his phone, and proceeded to pull up a contact, pretending he was reading a news article, when in reality, he was clicking on "Sebby x".

-Seb? As soon as they give me clearance, I'll need you to make sure there's no visual. When I'm in there, if anyone intrudes, put them out of action. If dear Sherlock awakes, shoot him in the shoulder or foot or something. Can't have him recognizing me. -JMx- he typed up lazily, and sent. Most people would wait for a reply, but Jim knew his sniper well enough to know that a reply would not be needed.

After around half an hour, the woman at the front called him up to her. She gave him Sherlock's room number and let him pass. After no one could see him, a little grin tugged at his lips. These people were so gullible, and given full responsibility for the defenseless! How easy it had been for he, Jim Moriarty, London's, and maybe even the world's, most dangerous criminal to get past them! A common criminal could do it! Had he not been in public, he would've chuckled heartily.

He walked to Sherlock's room, and once he knew no one was around to hear him, he let out a small chuckle. Poor Sherlock... Overcome by sour emotions, and see what had happened to him because of it? He never let his feelings get the better of him, and precisely for that reason. He sighed. He knew Sherlock was better than this. He'd watched the detective ever since he saw him unraveling the strands of the Carl Powers case, but it was only recently that he had truly stepped into the open for him. He certainly hoped he wouldn't regret giving so much of his time, effort, and resources up to entertain the detective.

When he found himself in front of the room, he walked in cautiously and glanced at the camera and the window. He knew his sniper was waiting for him to clear the way, so he opened up the window. As soon as he was out of the way, a bullet whizzed past him and destroyed the camera. He grinned, then. Perfect.

Next, he went to sit by Sherlock's hospital bed. His eyes took in Sherlock's appearance. There were bandages all over his detective, and burns that had not yet been healed by the cream Jim knew would have been applied. There were cuts everywhere on him, caused by flying debris in he explosion. He ran a hand over Sherlock's bandaged chest, raptly, amazed that he had caused this. It was a thing of wonder, seeing Sherlock like that. It was new, and he thought the roughed-up look suited the detective.

He pulled his hand back and continued to watch the curly-haired man as his thoughts went back to the great plans he had. They were complicated, and even Jim did not know all of the parts. He had already carried out the first two parts of it: Get Sherlock to _really _understand that if he didn't back off, there would be compliments. Then, give him just a taste of what he could do. That bomb was so carefully calculated. It could've killed Sherlock, but it didn't. What to do next? What?

He rubbed his temples, thinking quickly. What he had planned to do... well, he had _planned _to show Sherlock that Jim could make him concede to certain demands of his, by offering two definite possibilities that he would make sure would be practical, and then watch as the detective chose the lesser one, the one Jim would be able to predict that he would choose. But lying in a hospital bed, unaware of anything, that would be impossible. Jim would have to let him heal. He sighed, and opened his eyes, returning to the waking, buzzing world.

He continued to watch Sherlock for a few more moments, still, and silently. After those few moments, Jim decided that he was done there. He ran his hand over a bunch of exposed stitches on Sherlock's shoulder once, and then stood. He leaned down to kiss Sherlock's forehead, like a father would a sleeping child, and then turned toward the door and walked to it. He spoke, when he got there, but without turning around.

"Sleep well, Sherlock Holmes."

With that, he was gone.

* * *

><p>It took a while, but eventually, John awoke. After that, it took a few moments for him to form a coherent thought. When he did, he sat bolt upright, though he immediately regretted it. Pain shot through every fibre of him, which gave him a good idea about the damage. Carefully, so as to not pull any stitches or the like, he laid back down. Rational thoughts flowed freely through his mind, then.<p>

_Sherlock! Oh God, is he okay? Where is he? Did he survive? He _did _appear to be closer to the epicenter than I was... It looked like the bomb was in the kitchen, though I know that's not so. It could've been underneath it, sure. That being said... He probably got hit harder by it than me. How did this ha- ...Oh. Moriarty. I knew he was going to strike; he told us so; I just didn't expect it like this! So soon, and so violent... _In his mind, he sighed. _God, I hope he's alright... _

John shifted just a bit so that he wouldn't hurt himself, and closed his eyes. He knew how hospitals worked, particularly regarding people sustaining nearly mortal injuries. They would already know he was awake, but that didn't matter. By the time anyone came to check on him, he was long asleep.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock finally awoke, it was a day after John had. He was actually lucky to be alive, though he wasn't quite sure what had happened, initially. His memories were fuzzy, and he couldn't quite think straight. Upon looking, he knew it was because he had been given morphine for the pain. Well, at least there was that. He must have been in pretty bad shape. He tried to remember what had happened. He remembered going to the kitchen, and then... nothing. A brief flair of immense pain, and an all-consuming blackness.<p>

It took him no more than a few moments, even under the effects of the painkillers, to begin to form a theory. His flat had been bombed, and from there, he instantly knew who the perpetrator was - Moriarty. After all, the criminal _had _warned Sherlock, told him that if he didn't back off, he would be trodden on. He had expected a blow, but not one so soon. He vaguely wondered why he was even alive. Surely Moriarty had meant to kill? No, that couldn't be it. If he wanted Sherlock dead, he would be dead. There were no "if"s, "and"s, or "but"s about it. Moriarty did not want him dead, not yet anyway, though for the life of him Sherlock could not figure out what Moriarty must have been planning.

Once he had formed his theory about what had happened, he looked down at his body so he could see the shape he was in. Bandages, stitches, cuts, bruises... They were everywhere. _Oh dear... _He knew, then, that he must have been close to the bomb. He was in pretty bad shape, and suddenly quite grateful for the morphine. He knew when he came off the painkillers, it would hurt like... Well, he would leave the string of curse words to John.

His stomach growled, finalizing his estimate of how long he had been out - 2 days, at least. Hunger was not something he often faced. It meant that he hadn't eaten in around two and half days, the first half a day coming from the day of the explosion. He pressed a button by his hospital bed to call for a nurse.

A few minutes, a young woman with black hair and light eyes came in. A nurse. Thank God. Before he could say anything, she told him about his condition. He would be alright, would heal properly, but only if he stayed put and didn't do anything. She seemed a bit long winded as she talked to him, but he bore through it. When she had finished her spiel, he asked if he could possibly have something to eat. She said he could, and left.

A few minutes later, another woman, this one with dark eyes and red hair, came in with a sandwich and a glass of water. After murmuring his thanks, he started to eat the sandwich hungrily. This, at least, made him feel a little better.

_**/Author's note - Sandwiches may be a recurring theme in my stories. I LOVE sandwiches, so my characters love**_** sandwiches./**

* * *

><p>After his frankly lovely visit with Sherlock, Jim returned to his hideaway. It was a really lovely place, with expensive decor. Among this was an expensive couch made with real, high quality leather, white in colour. On that couch Jim plopped down and just thought, for the two days that Sherlock remained unconscious. He was delighted to find that just five hours or so after it had been destroyed, the surveillance camera in Sherlock's room had been replaced. Of course, there was a buzz to try to find Alex Flemming, but no such person having existed in that place in that time, there was no luck.<p>

After the camera had been replaced, Jim took to hacking into the hospital surveillance network and just watching Sherlock, as though the latter would feel his gaze through miles and air and virtual connections and suddenly awake.

Well, when Sherlock finally did awake, Jim was watching. He was delighted that his favourite detective had made it out alright, and watched as Sherlock struggled to put the pieces together. It was a short struggle, but still wonderful.

Even better than Sherlock awaking was Sherlock dancing obediently to the tugs on the strings Jim had a hold of. The injured man was doing exactly as Jim planned, working to get better, being willing even to stay put. It was exactly what Jim had intended for him to do. He was the puppetmaster. He controlled the game. Thus far, that fact had not changed.

Even as he thought about it, an intrusive thought made him sigh. Of course... He still had to wait. Sherlock was not well enough for the next part of his plan. It was something that would likely hurt, and he couldn't risk Sherlock being put out of action again. He would have to wait... It was so boring, but he would do it. Haste was the ruiner of all great plans. He would not let this one be ruined by it.


	5. Chapter 4

Moriarty's Plan

Chapter 4

Moriarty Makes His Next Move

**_*I do not own Sherlock; Sherlock is property of the BBC. Do not steal.*_**

The two weeks which followed after the very interesting explosion at Baker Street (published in the media as a "gas explosion") went from somewhat exciting to dull. The most exciting thing was the haste with which people came to repair Baker Street - Sherlock did not often pay much mind to his fame, but he was, at that time, grateful for being better-known. It made it so that the repairs would be done quickly.

He did not get to reap the fruits of his fame all too quickly, though. His recovery was prolonged. Sure, he was doing all that he was told to recover. That itself was helping speed up his recovery time just a little bit. However, he had had some bad habits before the explosion which were taking their toll on his health then. His incredibly small diet before the explosion was causing the larger diet his was pursuing after it to make him sick. There were a few times that he threw up, his stomach trying to empty itself of all that extra food that it wasn't used to.

It was two weeks, at least, of hell. The only thing he was grateful for was the fact that his prolonged recovery allowed him to remain on morphine. He knew that it would hurt like hell when they took him off of it. He knew he would have to wait for a while to get out. It was a hazard to his health to leave right then. Even so, he couldn't wait to go home.

* * *

><p>John, unlike Sherlock, recovered quickly. In just a few days, his injuries had nearly healed completely, and he was able to move without feeling too much pain. He visited Sherlock in the free time he had, and noted that his friend seemed a bit bitter. It didn't come as a surprise to him. Sherlock, who took pride in his superior intellect to most, had nearly been killed by his enemy. That was enough to make anyone bitter.<p>

When he wasn't visiting Sherlock, he was either talking to Mycroft or going to see the progress on the flat. He hadn't been officially released, but he was occasionally allowed to leave for brief excursions.

To be perfectly honest, he was worried. What was Moriarty planning now? Was he planning Sherlock's fall? Or was he going to... what did he say... burn him? He often considered it, but knew he was no psychic. He would have to wait and see.

After a week, John was released, and found that their flat had been worked on very quickly. He was able to return to it immediately. All that was inside of it was what insurance could buy for them. The furniture was new, but odd; it felt like a stranger's home. Few things had survived the explosion. Essentially, some clothes and John's laptop had survived. That was fair, all things considered, but not as good as he would've hoped.

When he got home, he went to get his laptop from Mrs. Hudson, who had kept it safe for him after it was recovered. She had had everything that had survived, and had chosen the furnishings for 221b. Upon consideration, John thought Mrs. Hudson had decent taste. Everything had a good colour and fit well together. To anyone else but him and Sherlock, their flat probably would have looked better than it had before.

He sat down in one of the chairs and decided that that one would be _his _chair, for as long as he and it were there. He opened up his laptop and started shopping for new attire, since a good portion of his, including his best suit, had been destroyed.

* * *

><p>Deep in the earth, in the basement of an entirely ordinary-looking house, sat a certain consulting criminal, thinking, as he so often did. He had carved out that... <em>lair <em>of his, to think and to plan, and a few other things too, when Sebby was there. As per usual, his thoughts were centered around Sherlock.

The detective had been dancing obediently as Jim had planned, and yet... He wasn't recovering as quickly as he should have. He was taking it easy, yes, and eating and drinking as though he were (Jim shuddered at the thought) a _normal _person, but he was still too slow in recovering. He _wanted _to move on, for God's sake! The waiting was excruciating. He knew it couldn't be helped, though; Sherlock, for all of his amazing abilities and stunning characteristics, was not actually very healthy, unfortunately. He didn't eat and he didn't sleep, and Jim found himself enraged by that. It made him want to go to Sherlock and just _make _him eat, make him sleep. But that responsibility didn't fall to him.

For the first time, essentially, Jim's mind and thoughts strayed to John Watson, whom Sherlock was wholly fond of. The doctor cared for the detective. Set him on the right path. Acted as a means to him. But... he also dealt with Sherlock's antisocialism and irritating nature, which Jim found entirely curious in and of itself.

In a few short moments, the criminal found himself coming to an ironclad decision. Before he did anything else... he would gather data about the doctor. What made him tick? Why was he able to tolerate the brilliant but unbearable detective? What was it that drew them together, in a platonic way but not a romantic one? Exactly who _was _John Watson? All these questions, Jim sought to answer.

* * *

><p>Over the course of three weeks, Jim tuned closely into news regarding Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Obviously, Watson was released from the hospital first. Jim could've gone after him then, but he decided not to. After Watson was out of the hospital, Jim's attention was focused on Sherlock. He kept a close eye on him, making sure he was doing everything that he was supposed to do, and maybe, just maybe, to be watching when the detective was released.<p>

Finally, at the end of the third week, after much waiting, Sherlock was finally released from the hospital. He wasn't completely healed, which Jim wasn't all too happy about but expected nonetheless, but he was checked out and made his way to Baker Street.

_Soon... _

Very soon. Jim would get to carry out his plan very soon.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock arrived at Baker Street, he took a moment to scrutinize it before going in, looking as though he thought that there might be another bomb, though that was certainly not the case. He was just a bit stricken; everything was new, visibly so. The building that had been dirty inside and out ere the bomb went off was now shiny, clean. It was a bit striking; that was all.<p>

After he was finished staring at the building like it was doing something odd, he went inside. His alertness, watchfulness, never ceased as he made his way up the new stairs. They didn't creak, which he wasn't used to. He immediately identified the wood as pine, a variance from the previous oak, but it wasn't of too much consequence.

He hadn't even opened the door when John flung it open, having been waiting for him, and gave him a tight, rare hug, which surprised him.

"I got the call a few moments ago. I was a bit worried that there was some sort of complication that was slowing your recovery, but then they told me you were released, and I was just ecstatic." he murmured.

"Mhm... Would you please let go? I'm not all better... And I'm in a bit of pain, particularly with you hugging me so tightly..." he said in a strained voice, in more pain than he would let on.

"Oh, sorry." John said, and let go, a mite embarrassed.

"It's fine." Sherlock murmured, brushing himself off. He stepped carefully over the chair that was sitting where his old chair would have been, had it not been destroyed in the explosion. He ran his hand over the leather of the chair, and sighed. It wasn't his old one, but it would have to do.

He sat carefully in the chair, being mindful of his injuries. He thought that it was fairly comfortable, at least. Mrs. Hudson's choosing. He wondered if she would come and see him. Normally, he wouldn't care. Right now, though, he sort of wanted to see her.

All thoughts of Mrs. Hudson were driven out of his mind when his phone beeped, letting him know he got a text. He knew who was texting him before he even pulled his phone out of his pocket.

-Glad to hear you're all better. ~JMx- was the text, the befuddling text that he didn't know quite how to reply just stared at it for a moment. He wondered what to say.

-So you've been thinking about me, then? -SH- he texted back after a few moments, deciding just to feign interest.

-Oh, but of course, Sherly. I've been keeping an eye on you, making sure you recovered properly. ~JMx-

-I was making sure you were doing everything you were supposed to. I was making sure that you weren't trying to buy yourself some time by disobeying your doctors' orders. ~JMx-

-Is it possible that I am the only one who can make you do the things you don't want to do? I'm touched. ~JMx-

-I was almost worried that you wouldn't make it. Almost. ~JMx-

-But I know you, Sherlock. I knew you would make it. ~JMx-

Sherlock's eyes widened at the onslaught of texts, and he waited for them to stop coming. Then he counted. Five. Five texts all right after each other. That was... odd. But that wasn't the only odd thing about the texts. The use of the name "Sherly". The little kiss ("x") after his initials every time. And the fact that he was invested enough to send so many texts right after each other was frankly rather telling.

-You sure seem... intent. SH- he texted back.

-Oh, believe me, dear. I am. ~JMx-

-And yet, ever and anon you make it seem to most that you are uninterested. SH-

-Oh, don't think that. You're probably my favorite person in this world. It's why you're not dead right now. ~JMx-

-Exactly what kind of interest is it that you hold in me, James? SH-

No reply. That, to Sherlock, was more telling than anything else.

* * *

><p>John sat across from Sherlock and watched him text with just a mite of disapproval. He wasn't stupid; he knew exactly who was texting Sherlock, particularly because of the fact that his friend was texting back.<p>

Sherlock's typing had hardly ceased when a text came on _his _phone. _What...? _John thought to himself, pulling out his phone in disbelief. The initials and content were enough to identify who was texting him, as much as he didn't believe that it was happening.

-Hello, Johnny Boy ~JM- was the text he received from the criminal. Had his name not been included, he would've thought it was a mistake. Moriarty had made it clear what he thought of John - that he was ordinary, incompetent, and only useful in that he was a way to get to Sherlock. He saw no reason for the criminal to be texting him.

He glanced up at Sherlock, who had become preoccupied with something else on his phone, before deciding finally to text back.

-What do you want? -JW- He was tempted to have not said anything, but his curiosity about what Moriarty was up to was overwhelming.

-It's rude to be so cold, Dr. Watson. Besides, I just want to make a deal with you. -JM- came the reply quickly enough.

-A deal? What kind of deal would you want to make with me? You've made it quite clear what you think of me. -JW- He replied, frowning, and almost scowled.

-Don't purport to know anything about what goes through my mind, or how I feel about anyone. You know nothing. Now, about that deal. All I want is information. -JM-

-I'm not telling you anything about Sherlock, so you should just forget it. -JW-

-Who said anything about information pertaining to him? Haven't I just told you not to make assumptions about my intentions? No, what I want is information about you. To be fair, if I wanted information about Sherlock from you, I would have means to extract it from you. But there's no point in that. -JM-

-What makes you think I would give you any information about myself? You think I would just hand you ammo to use against me? -JW-

-If I really wanted that information, I could extract that from you too. But this is mere curiosity driving this inquisition of mine, and it would be a grand waste of time if you made me force the information out of you or go digging into family history and personal history. Besides, this is a deal. That does mean that there's something in it for you, you know. -JM-

-What would be in it for me? -JW-

-Here's the good bit - You'll get information about me that Sherlock would have never laid his bony fingers on. The information you would get would be of the same nature that I am requesting that you give. -JM-

-Explain the nature of the information you're seeking, then, and I'll consider it. -JW-

-Family history, personal history, background, interests, that sort of thing. And, if you throw in how you heard of Sherlock, I'll throw in how _I _heard of Sherlock. -JM-

John glanced up nervously at his friend, who was preoccupied. This was a deal with the devil.. If Sherlock knew, he would surely be trying to stop him. Mentally, he sighed, his inhibitions broken down.

-Very well. Give me a time and place. -JW-

-Speedy's, one hour. Glad you made the right choice. I look forward to it. -JM-

-Ciao, Johnny boy. See you then. -JM-

John chose not to reply.

* * *

><p>After his conversation through texts with Dr. Watson was finished, Jim put his phone away and began finalizing the steps of this branch of the plan. One hour, and then he would get to carry it out.<p>

He packed everything he needed for his trip to Baker Street, which would be more than anyone expected.


End file.
